


Scraping at the Bottom

by incognitoinsomniac



Series: The Wolf of Sanctuary [1]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hope vs. Despair, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Loneliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25778512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incognitoinsomniac/pseuds/incognitoinsomniac
Summary: Calder emerged from the vault without his family or neighbors to find a nuclear wasteland beyond imagining. Without Codsworth he's not sure where he'd be. But at the moment he's at the bottom of a bottle.
Relationships: Codsworth & Male Sole Survivor, Codsworth & Sole Survivor (Fallout)
Series: The Wolf of Sanctuary [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1870129
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Scraping at the Bottom

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prologue to a few larger fics on Calder. I hope to post them one day. 
> 
> Title is from the lyrics of Experiment House by Red Fox Run.

Calder sat mesmerized by the flickering light from the ceiling fan refracting through the last swig of vodka as he swirled it around the bottom of the bottle. Who would have known that Mr. Sanders down the street was a drunk? A drunk with a basement bunker. A basement bunker that would have been safer than a secure Vault full of cryogenic pods under guard 24/7 for the first 80 years of nuclear fallout. Except the first 80 years weren’t really the ones that mattered to him.

He gulped down the last swig. It didn’t make him feel better. Fixing up Mr. Parson’s workshop, building the water filter, running water and electric, barricading his old house, boarding up all those memories he couldn’t bear to remember, burying his neighbors, burying Nora. None of it made him feel better. The past week of drinking hadn’t made him feel better. But when the booze ran out, he would definitely feel worse.

The familiar whir of a model 238B nuclear power unit alerted him to the approach of Codsworth, his faithful Mr. Handy who was back from scavenging. “Find anything?”

“Only empty bottles I’m afraid. You may very well have drunk the county dry, sir.”

“Damn.”

“Sir, I know the loss of Miss and Young Shaun is dreadful. But I cannot stand to see you in this state any longer. Don’t you think finding people you could,” the robot paused drawing two of his appendages together in a programmed response of uncertainty, “um, sir, camaraderie is important to the human psyche. Finding like-minded people could-”

Calder cut him short, “No one alive is my people, Codsworth. My people are lying six feet under on that hill.” He swung his arm along with the empty bottle toward the window. The setting sun cast a lonely glow on the makeshift grave-markers. His arm dropped. The bottle made a hollow tink against the tarnished linoleum floor.

He slumped forward. Defeat and loneliness washed over him in waves. But a cool pinprick ran a chill up his spine. He stiffened. The sharp point of a Handy Drill rested softly against his forehead. “Codsworth?”

He raised his eyes to look up at the robot. His only friend left in this nuclear wasteland. Had the fallout and 200 years without an upgrade degraded his processors? Had Codsworth gone mad?

The kind British voice fuzzed through the vocal box, “Would you like to join them, sir? It will take me some time to dig the hole, but I can bury you with the same care as you have for Miss and our dear neighbors. As a robot, I cannot resign myself to the same beliefs in an afterlife as most humans do, but if there is one and you would like to join Miss Nora there, I completely understand. I do so miss her smile, sir.”

“And what of Shaun?” Calder mumbled. What Codsworth offered made his stomach churn but a part of him yearned for release from this radioactive hellscape. Maybe that was what he hoped for with every desperate sip of drink. Dying from alcohol poisoning was one thing. But asking Codsworth to take his life was something else altogether. It was admitting defeat. It was abandoning his son.

“You will not find out his fate, whether good or ill, at the bottom of that bottle, sir.” The drill moved from his forehead to tap the empty vodka bottle lightly.

“I don’t know where to start. We know nothing about those men that took him or why,” Calder muttered in dismay.

“I would recommend starting with people, sir. Maybe someone will recognize this abysmal scarred man. Maybe he’s ruined other people’s lives as well, stolen their babies.”

Codsworth offered hope. Hope that Calder’s mind could not entirely accept. What he had seen of the world, even before the bombs dropped did not instill in him a faith in people. And more over he added out loud, “He didn’t seem the leave-witnesses-alive sort of criminal.”

“He left you alive," Codsworth replied simply before adding, "All criminals leave trails. You just have to ask the right questions. And hope people aren’t the shoot-first type. I seem to run into quite a number of those. Terrible on the circuitry,” he mused.

He considered the idea for a moment before asking, “Any good place to look for people that ask questions first?”

“When I was scavenging in Concord last Tuesday, less people beat me with sticks than usual. Maybe they will be more open to listening to your plight, sir. And less likely to pummel you about.”

The few drifters who had wandered into Sanctuary since Calder had resurfaced from Vault 111 hadn’t been in a talkative mood. More of a murderous take-all-your-stuff mood. Hopefully, the people in Concord were more reasonable. The well-used makeshift weapons and armor from the drifters told him probably not. But it was somewhere to start. He headed to bed with at least a goal to move toward. A vast improvement from this morning where his only goal was the bottom of however many bottles he could find before passing out.

He woke the next morning with an unfortunate hangover but an ounce of hope he had been unable to muster for some time. He secured his refurbished army-issued 10mm to his hip. And cleaned up a makeshift pipe pistol as a backup in his ankle holster. The leather armor from the drifters was old and riddled with holes. A poor substitute to the combat armor he had used in the military. But it would have to suffice. After a short goodbye to Codsworth, Calder was on his way to Concord, feeling entirely unprepared for what lie ahead.


End file.
